The membrane is thin like how I imagine
my veins to be. Smooth muscle thin
and slick, its pressure slower, each
thump pulsing through, thick and
red with hemoglobin. They're so delicate
in our bodies—it's not their job to be
sturdy, it's our muscles and our bones
to guard. Could our veins pop like
this thin membrane, dipping in before
there's just enough pressure for it to bust,
the thin juice sliding down my fingers
and staining them like red wine?
YOU ARE READING
Piss and Moan
PoetryAlistair enjoys writing poetry despite his parents' disapproval of the feminity they believe it has. Still, he continues, and when he meets a boy, who his parents also disapprove of, he still continues. (I've written this before and it was really re...
